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He could still feel it; the weight of a crippling loss. That was it. He was officially ruined. Such a horrible performance surely cemented the end of his career.
He didn't know what had happened out there. Was it the crowd? The pressure? The immense amount of talent all around him and the fact that he was downright awful?
Yuuri shook his head rather forcefully, whipping disheveled black strands of hair back and forth. He was beyond humiliated and disappointed. He was...hopeless. He had come in last. Dead last. Last in his first ISU Grand Prix Finals. Last in his first competition against his idol, Victor Nikiforov.
He wanted to crawl in a hole and die. Yuuri's greatest wish at that moment was to disappear. Everywhere there was the chatter of reporters, the flashes of cameras, the crackle of recording equipment, the buzzing of excited fans.
Celestino had told him not to be disheartened, to not give up hope, telling him that this wasn't the end.
But for Yuuri, this was the end.
Everything about this competition would surely haunt him - forever. He had let the nerves get to him, churning his stomach, making him feel physically sick and his entire warm-up was thrown off-course. That shook his nerves even more and he flubbed nearly every jump that he had planned, including his toe loops, which were always his favourites.
The short programme was a disaster, nerves coursing through his entire body made him shaky and unsteady, causing him to lose his footing more than once. Celestino was optimistic, however, telling Yuuri that even though his score wasn't optimal, he could still make a comeback and place in the free skate.
That, however, did not happen. The free skate went just as bad - no, worse than the short programme. Yuuri messed up his step sequence - his best asset - and then missed out on the jumps that would have boosted his score. He fell during one of them, hitting the ice and rolling over.
He knew in that moment that this was it - he was done for.
Everything had gone by in such a blur and he could have sworn that he had blacked out halfway through. It was mortifying failing like such an amateur in front of his hero. How could he ever pick himself back up and skate again?
The answer: he wouldn't.
Reading the news articles only made it worse. Every social media site was plastered with slanderous articles denouncing Yuuri as a skater - another blow to his ego that wasn't needed.
Yuuri felt himself falling apart, running from the reporters, hiding from his coach. He ducked into the W.C. to be alone for once. On the other side of the phone had been his mother, but no matter what comfort she tried to offer, Yuuri took no solace in her words. He had messed up.
Getting a beat-down from Yuri Plisetsky, the 'Russian Punk,' only made matters worse. Every time Yuuri closed his eyes, he imagined the other skater's face, eyes blazing with a youthful fury, telling him that he would never be anything more than a loser and that he should retire.
Maybe he was right. Yuuri was a loser.
He balled his hands into fists, pressing them against his eyes. He couldn't take it anymore. It felt like the walls were closing in and that the air was leaving his lungs as fast as he breathed it in. Colours and sounds bled together and the room began to spin.
That was when Yuuri ran.
He ran from the press, he ran from his coach, he ran from the other skaters, and mostly he ran from himself.
All his life he had dreamed of being a skater, one to match the unparalleled Victor Nikiforov. Now that dream was just that - a dream. Yuuri would never be able to be half the skater that Victor was. It just wasn't possible.
The arena doors burst open and Yuuri was met with the gentle flutter of early-season snow. The cold air instantly stung his face and lungs as he drew in heaving breaths. He was still for only a moment, sputtering and gasping.
He rubbed his hands up and down his arms, dropping down to the ground as he sat against the wall of the arena. It was cold and dark, save for the gentle glow of lamplight that was farther off down the path.
As Yuuri sat there, he couldn't hold back the onslaught of tears anymore and let them trail down his face in thick streams. He choked on a sob, drawing his knees to his chest as he shook with both cold and anguish.
The hot stains on his knees only grew as he wept, shaking and sputtering violently as he gained a fresh layer of snow on top of him.
He kept on crying, every memory of that night washing over him and causing a whole new round of sobs to escape his chest and fresh tears to stain his face.
He was pathetic. A pathetic failure. How was he ever going to go back home and face everyone is Hasetsu?
Maybe he shouldn't go home. Maybe...maybe...
A hundred different scenarios started to run through Yuuri's head, and none of them good.
That was when he heard a voice.
"Hey...are you ok?"
Yuuri's head shot up, the light from the arena blinding him as tears blurred his eyes. He held up a hand as he tilted his neck back to gaze at a figure standing not far from him with their hands in their pockets.
It took a moment for Yuuri's eyes to adjust, but when they did, he drew in a deep, shuddering breath as he was struck with awe.
"Victor?"
He whispered.
Oh, this was only worse! Here Yurri was, a blubbering mess and his idol was standing right in front of him.
"You're Yuuri Katsuki, right? I saw your performance. You looked nervous..."
Yuuri couldn't help it as a snuffle escaped him.
Great, even Victor had seen him screw up!
“Oh…Пожалуйста…don’t cry…I’m not good vith crying…”
Yuuri buried his face into his knees again. This was beyond humiliating. He wished he could suck himself inside his jacket like a turtle and die.
Yuuri felt something drape around him. He pulled his head up, gasping quietly when he saw that Victor had wrapped his track jacket around him.
Yuuri sunk into the fabric, still fresh with warmth from the other's body. And it smelled...just like Yuuri always imagined Victor would smell. Warm and comforting...like fresh linens and vanilla.
He gripped tightly to the familiar red and white jacket, taking heaving breaths. That was when he felt his body being enveloped in warmth and was even more surprised than before to find Victor wrapping his arms around him.
“Don’t cry, дорогая. Ve all have bad days. And ve all have days vhere ve fall and don’t vant to get back up. But you’ll get back up, I just know it.”
Yuuri swallowed, a breath catching in his throat. He was speechless. No one had ever believed in him that much than Victor did in that moment. And it was more than Yuuri's heart could bear.
He flung his arms tightly around Victor, pressing his face against the other's neck. In one moment, he was holding tightly to the Russian Olympian, and in the next he was locking lips with him.
Yuuri's eyes went wide with realization and he found himself scampering backwards.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
His face was rouged the deepest shade of red.
A deep, rumbling laugh escaped the other. Victor's normally Copenhagen blue eyes looked indigo in the night as he leaned close to Yuuri.
“Только не останавливайся.”
His lips landed back on Yuuri's, pliant yet soft, and Yuuri sighed as he melted into their velvety embrace.
He laced his arms around Victor's neck, still wearing the other's jacket draped over his shoulders. His fingers brushed against silvery hair and he found himself wondering if this was all a dream and he was suffering from hypothermia-related shock right about now.
But Yuuri didn't want to think about waking up because, for once that night, things were going right.
Victor came closer, straddling Yuuri's legs with one knee, fingers wound into midnight black hair. A small, exasperated noise left him along with a little puff of breath. His cheeks and nose were tinged pink and Yuuri just lay there in the fresh snow looking into those eyes that he had only ever seen on glossy posters or on the fuzzy television set in Ice Castle.
Yuuri was running his thumb absently over the collar of Victor's jacket when the other extended his hand.
"Vould you like to come back inside? You''ll catch cold out here."
Yuuri nodded, detached a bit as he took the older boy's hand and was pulled to his feet. Victor slung an arm around his shoulders as they walked back inside.
Cameras flashed from the moment they set foot back in the arena, and Yuuri was sure that tomorrow's news feed would be plastered with pictures of him and his reddened face swathed in a Russian jacket with Victor Nikiforov's arm around him. And what would Yuko say? Or Minako? Yuuri suppressed a shudder at the sheer thought alone.
But he was distracted by Victor's casual elegance as they walked along as if they were old friends.
Victor smiled as he looked down at Yuuri.
“Ты будешь в порядке.”
Yuuri wasn't completely sure what the words meant, but he took comfort in them knowing that, in the end, everything was going to be ok.
~_____ ❤ _____~